


Disturbance at the Heron House: A Tale of Nevrast

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is rotten in the kingdom of Nevrast...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fortune's Twisted Smile

**Author's Note:**

> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to elfscribe5 for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Written for 24 runes prompt 01 - Fehu.

**Vinyamar, 124 First Age**

 

Gildor Inglorion laughed heartily to himself, not for the first time that evening. Admittedly he was more than drunk, but the cool night air and his hefty winnings with the dice left him exhilarated. This was the life: the ships, the port, the sea, the taverns, the gambling, the pretty whores and the dormant laws. He didn't miss the claustrophobic paranoia of Hithlum nor its closeness to the Grinding Ice. Who would want that? No, not for him. Neither did he miss the stuffy propriety demanded of a close relative of the king, nor the constant reproach of a father who only love their status at cousins to the king. Vinyamar was still too cold and damp for Gildor's taste but at least it was not as oppressive as the court in Mithrim up North. In any case, he didn't plan to stay much longer.

He caressed the heavy pouch attached to his belt and grinned again, taking a sobering gulp of salty air into his lungs. Right, he had just passed the Sea Dragon and was nearing the House of Delights with its red window shades. He sure loved the colourful names the Sindar always found for their businesses. After the port's finest brothel, he only had to walk two more blocks before finding his seedy inn, the Herring's Den, and his warm bed. He must have taken a wrong turn to make the way this long, but he didn't care. The night was young and in the alleys of the harbour only happy drunks like himself and stray cats roamed. Life had been ugly but at this moment it sure was a thing of beauty. His only regret was that he hadn't persuaded that strange little fellow who Galdor had serving drinks at the Dice of Gold. He was a pretty thing: firm ass, long legs and judging from his cod piece, quite a mouthful. Gildor giggled to himself and scratched his balls with affectionate zest. He'd find a way of seducing the little squirrel. He hadn't had Noldo ass in a very long while. Why go through all the effort and the endless guilt and the false promises... bugger it all. That's why Eru had made the Sindar so perfect: no complexes, no silly rules, no fear of Valar who weren't there. Yeah, nice Sinda ass, that's what he liked, that and big Sinda cock. Yeah.

Gildor walked on, his fevered thoughts leaving behind the little Noldo from the tavern as he mentally recounted his earnings, savouring the memory of horror and ire spreading so thoroughly over that fat guy's face as he lost over and over. Gildor snorted inelegantly before tripping for the third time since he had left the tavern. Or maybe it was the fifth, but bugger him if he was counting! Despite the excellence of their collective asses and their loose morals, the Sindar could learn a thing or two about decent cobbling from the Noldor. Yeah, the Noldor were good at making things. After all, that pent up sexual energy had to go somewhere. Grandpa Finwë sure knew what he was doing when he wrote the sex laws, stimulating all that industrious chastity... exception made to Uncle Fëanor, of course, who was industriously unchaste. They didn't have a clue, his countrymen, but he, Gildor, Aegnorion by birth, Inglorion by choice, was going to show them all and his newly hefty purse was only the first step.

A hiccup and another stumble made Gildor decide to stop for a few moments. He sagged on the doorsill of an old warehouse. Gildor only saw the black shape a second before a vicious kick pounded into his ribs.

With a short howl, Gildor fell to the ground hugging his frame. Before he could rise, his attacker closed in, kicking with steel-capped boots, again and again, always seeking the weakest points. Gildor tried to protect his head and to rise to his feet but everything was too quick and he simply could not do it. The beast kept grunting insults and threats but the elf's Sindarin was obviously not a native one, and the heavy Quenya accent and bad grammar made him as intelligible as orc. The voice was more than familiar though, and Gildor hunched further to protect himself - no one kicked as viciously as a sour loser.

Fortunately, and Fortune did smile a lot on him, the harbour was never completely empty, not even this deep in the night. Suddenly, he heard a booming voice call out, "Salgant, you fat pig, what are you doing?"

The fat pig lost his concentration long enough for Gildor to crawl away and with the aid of a wall, stand up on wobbly legs. Salgant had his back to him, facing two intruders. Gildor wasn't sure if they were Salgant's friends - Gildor had heard stranger names used affectionately - or enemies, but he wasted no time in finding out. He ran for the Herring as fast as his legs would allow.

But of course Falathar had left the doors closed - didn't he know by now there was no point in trying to make the Herring look respectable? He heard heavy footsteps closing in fast. With a sob of frustration, Gildor leaned against the door and the solid weight of his purse pressed into his hip. No, he wouldn't give it up! He began to knock and shout for his life.


	2. Trouble, trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to minuial_nuwing for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Written for 24 runes, prompt 02 - Uruz.

"Oi, blondie," Rog bellowed good-naturedly as he and Vorownë drew closer to the panicking elf, who now threatened to tear down the door of the Herring's Den with his bare fists.

The elf turned and, to Voronwë's amusement, staggered on his feet, pushing his chest out though he was obviously in pain. He straightened his back and challenged Rog with his fists. The poor thing must have been hit in the head, in addition of being drunker than a cask of wine, if he thought he had a chance.

"It's alright," Voronwë said, trying to placate him. "Calm down, you'll wake up the whole neighbourhood."

The elf snorted. "Yeah, and this is such a respectable one. Next thing I know you'll be politely asking me to hand over my purse."

Even as he spat at Rog's feet, Falathar opened the door. "What is going on here?" he asked irately. "I've told you time and again that this is a reputable establishment. You've been here for a week and have already given..."

"They were trying to steal my purse and kill me," the blond whined, falling onto Falathar's shoulder before Rog's smack hit his head.

Falathar shrieked in horror, pushing the weight in his arms away. "Watch how you speak of the Lords of the Heron House and of the House of the Hammer of Wrath!!" Falathar pulled his guest in by the collar of his tunic and bowed to Rog and Voronwë. "Please pay him no attention. Just another ignorant drunk speaking. He most likely didn't know who he was insulting."

Voronwë sighed to himself. Two years ago, Falathar would have laughed at the scene but since the Lord Turgon had decided to make Voronwë a Lord of Nevrast some things had changed - and not all for the best.

"Never you mind, Falathar. This fellow just got a good beating and he probably-"

A low, pained whine cut him short. "Oi! If you're not going to rob me can I go to bed already?"

Rog snorted. "All right, go to bed, you ungrateful little bastard."

Over his shoulder, Voronwë shook his head, sending a meaningful look at Falathar.

"All right, Rog, you go along. I'll check if this fellow needs a surgeon."

Rog nodded and bid them goodnight, while Voronwë helped Falathar drag his charge up the stairs.

"So who is he?" Voronwë asked, certain that the elf could barely understand them, now that the danger had passed and he was left with pain and too much booze.

"He's Noldo, despite the hair. Says his name is Gildor Inglorion. If I heard right, that's one of their lords, but this fellow looks anything but lordly. He certainly spends more time in the taverns and brothels than at court," Falathar added with a sneer, as they reached the top of the stairs. He guided them left, then expertly opened one of the doors without so much as jostling Gildor.

The door was too narrow for three so Voronwë let him carry Gildor into his room, following behind. Falathar dropped Gildor on the bed then quickly lit two whale oil burners. Voronwë sat on the bed and started to undressed Gildor, who squinted as he faintly protested in pain.

"He's all black and blue, Lord-"

"Falathar, please. Voronwë. I don't understand how you can call 'Lord' to someone that you used to race up the highest masts as a child."

Falathar scolded. "I told you this before, I'll say it again. You have to understand what it means to us that they made you Lord, and that we want to honour you. If we don't respect you, who will? And besides-"

"Falathar, please," Voronwë cut in, glancing at Gildor, who occasionally whimpered in the bed. "We really need to see to him."

Falathar nodded and started feeling Gildor's body for broken bones, causing a great deal of pain in along the way. He shook his head as he proceeded. "Who did this?"

"Salgant. Probably over a whore or gambling. He's a sour loser, that one."

"Yeah," Falathar agreed. "I don't understand why you just don't bar him off the harbour. He's nothing but trouble."

"I wish I could." Voronwë sighed. "There are things I can't tell you, not yet, but I can't risk getting on his bad side anymore than I am already."

"That Rog can handle him," Falathar said as he carefully turned Gildor to conclude his examination.

"I could take him on, if that's what you mean. I'm not afraid of fat yet. It's his tongue that might get us all into trouble."

"Well, what he's done to Gildor here would earn anyone else a few days in the port jail." Falathar straightened and looked down on Gildor. "Three cracked ribs, two gashes, countless bruising. He was lucky you got there when you did."

Voronwë nodded. "He was down on the ground and Salgant was kicking him. I was surprised that Gildor managed to run all the way back here. What can we do for him?"

"Stay here and I'll get some ointments. He'll have to stay in bed for a few days. That's all."

Voronwë assented, following his old friend with his eyes as he Falathar left the room. He was grateful for the respite in the onerous courtesy everyone dispensed him at the harbour these days, but he knew Falathar would return calling him 'My lord.' Placing his elbows on his knees he leaned forward, hiding his face in his hands. Trouble. That was the sum of his life, currently, and this night's incident only smelled like more trouble. Salgant was a vicious little viper, his fast ascent in court more thanks to his talent for intrigue than for the lyre. Turgon thought he was funny! Great men could be blind on occasion, and for all his wit and wisdom, Turgon had yet to open his eyes to the danger Salgant posed.

Voronwë leaned back on the chair. At this hour, Meleth was probably asleep, tired of waiting for him. At moments like these, he felt like going home and climbing into a warm bed shared with a warm, accepting body and just sleeping. He tried not to think the pillow that doubtless awaited him on the cold, hard couch in the living room.


End file.
